


Wake

by Etharei



Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, Episode Tag, Gen, Magic Realism, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/pseuds/Etharei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whispers had returned: <i>there is a man who can fool even the gods, who can make you dead, or make you not have lived at all.</i> (Sherlock/Torchwood crossover)</p><p>[SPOILERS for the end of Sherlock 2.03 "The Reichenbach Fall" and Torchwood S3 "Children of Earth"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure where this fic came from, but I figured I might as well share it.
> 
>  **Many thanks** to my beta [xsilverdreamsx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx) and also to [Manderkat](http://twitter.com/manderkat) and [fiarra](http://starsparkle333.livejournal.com) for looking it over.
> 
> \+ Also posted [on LJ](http://rei-of-writing.livejournal.com/37675.html).

Icy steel against his skin wakes Sherlock up abruptly. The instinctive inhale sets off something in his chest: he gasps, sucks down air until his lungs hurt and his eyes water. He breathes and breathes and breathes like his body is worried it might soon forget how to.

_John._

"Easy," says a voice. Not John. A hand lightly lands on his shoulder. The contact is unexpected. Just enough pressure to convey that Sherlock can pull away if he wants to, and it's for this reason that he doesn't. "Focus on your breathing. Long, deep breaths."

He tries. The skin touching his is warm. His head tingles oddly. A few more blinks and the blurs in his vision settle into edges and shades.

"That's it." The hand on his shoulder connects to a man, who smiles at him in a vaguely approving way. Dark hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Dark suit, blue tie. There's the gentle beep and hum of electronics close by. "I'm going to take a few scans, to make sure you've healed up correctly. You've experienced a shock to the system, regardless; it’s normal to feel out of sorts for several hours after waking. Please sit still now."

Sherlock is seldom inclined to be obedient even on the best of days. But his body feels like he's not as connected to it as he ought to be, and he suspects that if he tries to get to his feet, he won't stay there for very long. Also, he finds that he’s naked, though a thin sheet has been draped over his lower body for modesty's sake.

Not home. Not hospital. Last memory - ah. 

"Internals are stable," the man reports, consulting a tablet computer that looks larger and thinner than any model Sherlock has seen on the market. Sherlock wants to be more curious, but his mind is caught on the memory of empty air between him and the ground. A part of him feels like he hasn't quite touched down yet. "You scraped your head a little but it's superficial. You also banged up your left arm, by way of landing on it. The inflammation has already gone down; you may experience a bit of soreness in the muscle, but just avoid hauling heavy things around for a few days and it'll be fine."

There's something hypnotically _upbeat_ about the man's tone. "What about-" Sherlock interrupts, then coughs. His throat is dry, like he hasn't had water in days. "The autopsy?"

"I have a copy of it here," says the man, handing over a file. "You will be pleased to know that it went smoothly. By now, your stand-in is safely in a casket. The funeral is tomorrow. Some of my best work, if I may say so myself."

Sherlock eagerly opens the file. His eyes refuse to make sense of the words for a few seconds. His brain doesn't fail him for long, however, and he's soon reading. After several minutes, he has no choice but to concede the point, especially when he gets to the photographs. _He_ can believe that he's looking at himself, laid out on the morgue slab, the usual incisions dividing an eerily familiar torso. "How on Earth did you get such an accurate pattern of bone fracturing?"

"Tricks of the trade," the man demurs. There’s a small, secretive quirk to the corner of his lips.

"Were there any questions?"

"No. They did the usual DNA and dental matching, and three people confirmed the corpse as you, separately. One of whom, I believe, signed in as a family member."

The knot of tension in Sherlock's spine begins to dissipate. Having addressed the most pressing issue at hand, Sherlock now takes the time to properly look at the man still fussing around him, observing the neat, efficient movements - the signs of skill and familiarity with his tasks. Takes an expert to know one, he thinks.

The observation brings Moriarty to mind. There's a clear difference, though: where Moriarty had radiated energy and barely-restrained glee, not unlike Sherlock himself in the throes of a case, this man is quiet and clean and unassuming. Both Moriarty and Sherlock can don a similar guise if the situation requires it, of course, but the way the air of competence sits on this man strongly suggests that this is his default state.

"What was that, right before I hit the pavement?" Sherlock asks. "It felt like hitting a mattress made out of ice." And then something had _zapped_ him. It had clung and buzzed over his skin while he'd lain on the pavement, completely numb, half-convinced that his body was all broken bones and he'd committed suicide for real after all.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you the specifics," the man says apologetically. "But I have, ah, equipment that can slow a falling object, at least enough to avert critical injury in a human being. Then you were... disguised, until you could be taken inside and swapped by your accomplice. The rest has been a matter of healing up the injuries you did get. Mostly bruises, and your arm."

"That's," Sherlock blinks, "not a level of technology I've encountered before." Even in secret government facilities.

"No, it's not," the man agrees.

Sherlock huffs and leans back. The amusement on the man's face is not unlike the one that appears on John's when he thinks Sherlock is being petulant.

"Right," the man announces after several more minutes of poking at unidentifiable equipment. "Being legally dead aside, you're in good health and decent shape. So. You are in a safehouse on the outskirts of London. I'm sure you'll be able to figure out precisely where the moment you get a look out a window. However, as per our agreement, you need to stay in this house for 48 hours. For observation."

"Is this truly necessary?" He doesn't actually feel up to leaving the bed just yet, but the restriction still chafes.

The _stop-it-Sherlock_ John-smile reappears. "Yes. It really is for the best. Sometimes this technology can have... unexpected effects. It helps with maintaining your cover, too. News of your death is still strong in the public consciousness." He pauses. "If you will consider my advice, this is a good opportunity for you to put your thoughts in order."

 

Sherlock's thoughts are always in order, of course, neatly categorized and mapped, ready to be unfolded via his mind palace at a moment's notice. But the man has left the room and Sherlock's body is being stubbornly recalcitrant and _soft_.

He gets a few minutes' distraction from the room he's in. Bedroom. Modern carpeting, signs that a larger piece of furniture - likely a double bed - had once rested in the place presently occupied by the narrower contraption that Sherlock is lying on, which looks like a cross between an operating table and a military bunk. Built-in cupboard. Chair. Floor lamp. Everything from the pale cream walls to the light fixture in the ceiling is generic, might be found in any home in London built within the last ten years.

He returns to the file containing his autopsy, perusing it slowly. He's pleased to find that someone else, not Molly, had done the report. He still has little idea of how deep Moriarty's network goes. If there's no record of her being on-site after he jumped, much less wheeling his body in, all the better. He finds himself repeatedly examining the glossy photographs. His fascination with dead bodies is widely known and frequently the cause of derision, and there's something even more compelling about seeing _himself_ in death. As he very likely won't be around to appreciate his _real_ autopsy pictures, unless one of the religions buzzing about human society turns out to be correct, he supposes that this is the closest he will ever get.

Has John looked at this file? He must have identified the body. The doctor in him would have needed the proof, and the soldier in him would not have been satisfied with keeping the distance. He would have felt that he owed it to Sherlock, no matter how much it-

Sherlock closes the file with a snap. The flop of the cardstock is not nearly as satisfying as, say, closing a laptop lid or throwing his phone at the wall.

_Caring is not an advantage._

He holds the next breath, lets it out slowly.

John is safe. That is the only thing of relevance. John must _remain_ safe. Returning to John is the best-case outcome, but this must be secondary to the goal of _keeping John safe_.

"Coffee?" The man is back.

Sherlock hesitates, then nods. A cup is summarily deposited into his hands. The man pulls the chair over from the side of the room, and takes a seat next to the bed with his own steaming cup. Sherlock sips - black and sweet, just as he likes it.

He suddenly realizes who the man most closely reminds him of: Mycroft. The same method of approaching a task, the same beat-pause of consideration before engaging in an action. But where Mycroft exudes knowledge and mystery in a manner that Sherlock has always found insufferable, this man seems to hold that similar sense of _knowing_ and _secrets_ inside himself. Sherlock is willing to posit that such a man would allow occasional glimpses of the true extent of his knowledge, but would never be so gauche as to wave it in someone's face.

Sherlock opens with, "Aren't you going to ask how I found out about you?"

The man shrugs. "Somewhere, at some point in time, you must have made the correct decision. Helped someone who, without entirely knowing it, is connected to a sufficient number of other someones who have a pathway to me." He smiles. "Or maybe I just like what you do, and I'm keen for you to keep on doing it."

"I once uncovered a similar sort of operation, you know, in which the parties involved aimed to benefit financially from the insurance policy of the supposed deceased." Sherlock glances at the sleek equipment grouped in a loose circle around his cot. "Admittedly, yours is several magnitudes higher in sophistication."

"Thank you." The man inclines his head.

Where one existed, he'd reasoned, others must as well. He'd sent out word after the first confrontation with Moriarty, spread by his trusty homeless network. He hadn't really expected anything to come out of it. But the whispers had returned: _there is a man who can fool even the gods, who can make you dead, or make you not have lived at all._

After a moment, Sherlock says, "You're him, aren't you? You're Mr. Jones. The man in charge."

"Yes, to the first. Don't know about the second," Mr. Jones answers easily. "That would imply that I have someone to be in charge _of_."

"Yes," Sherlock hums. "You're far more comfortable in a supportive role, rather than a leader. There's a slight hitch at the end of some of your sentences; the type of phrase suggests that you're used to appending some form of honorific, like _sir_ , which indicates that you're accustomed to working for someone with an official rank. You're not military, but there are faint gun calluses on your hands. Your accent is clearly Welsh, yet you've spent time in London, though you're not entirely comfortable here. Bad memories. But you don't want to go back to Cardiff, either."

Mr. Jones beams at him. He seems to relax, then, and looks younger for it. "Not bad. You really can't help it, can you? All those people are daft, if they can know you and not believe you mean every word."

Sherlock shrugs. "I was informed that you rarely take requests. That you employ your services only for very special circumstances. What made you agree to mine?"

"Are you not a very special circumstance, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

Mr. Jones leans back on his chair. "Why did you do it?"

Sherlock wants to point out that _he'd_ asked first, but the answer he's planning to give to John one day is already sitting on his tongue, waiting to be practiced. "To protect someone I care about."

"That's why." A tilt of the head. "I'm sure you had alternative plans. Those bystanders. You could not have been a hundred percent certain that I could do as you asked, much less that you could trust me with your life. And yet."

"There'd been _no time_ ," Sherlock grumbles. If he'd had longer, if he'd figured out the circumstances sooner. "I could not take the chance. It had to be believed. By _everyone_ , or I might as well not have done it. My brother."

"The one in government."

"It had to withstand his scrutiny. If the fatality had been anyone else, I can fool him - I _have_ fooled him. But with me, he would have looked very, very hard." And while Mycroft can be trusted with what passes for government secrets, Sherlock refuses to trust him with the safety of John Watson.

 

A short nap later, and Sherlock feels far more refreshed, ready to tackle the challenge of being ambulatory. He pulls on a loose shirt and black trousers that have been left, folded, at the foot of his bed, and then a thin dressing gown that was hanging behind the door. There's a cup of coffee, still hot, waiting for him on the cabinet just outside the door.

Most people would probably be unnerved, Sherlock knows. He eagerly downs half of the cup, the hot liquid boosting his admiration for his temporary host.

He explores the little house. Standard one-bedroom, with a living room, kitchen, and bathroom. Generic. He examines everything, anyway, and ends up half-sprawled on the settee. It's not entirely comfortable, too stiff from lack of use.

_his armchair is far preferable there are bumps and knots down the side but the shape of it has reached a compromise with his body though sometimes he takes John's because it's compromised too and lets him feel the weight of John's body like it's captured the shape of John in the world_

He digs his nails into what he thinks is the settee, until he feels a sting and realises that he's clutching his thigh. He forces his fingers to relax. Keeps his eyes on the ceiling, even when he senses Mr. Jones stepping into the living room.

"You were your first." Sherlock takes another drink of the truly excellent coffee before he continues. "The very first time you faked a death was for your own."

"Yes."

"That must have been difficult."

"Not as much as you'd think." Mr. Jones gives him a self-deprecating smile that makes him look strangely old. "Funny, what a person can do when they have access to all the right toys and have a lot of hands-on experience in covering up the deaths of other people."

Sherlock doesn't bother asking what kind of occupation would include both of those in the job description. He considers the other man. "Why did _you_ do it?"

For the first time, it's Mr. Jones who looks away. He has his own cup of coffee, and his thumb is absently stroking the handle. "Payment. Or punishment. In some cultures, they mean the same thing."

 

Time passes strangely. The first few hours after waking seem to ooze by at a glacier's pace, and then all of a sudden it's the next day; Sherlock has only vague recollections of the night, wandering around the house and shuffling back to the bedroom to sleep. If Mr. Jones sleeps, or leaves, he doesn't remember it. Then again, he frequently loses track of the man, even though it takes him less than thirty strides to visit every room in the house.

He recalls their first conversation - the only conversation they'd had before Sherlock blindly entrusted his life into the hands of a man he'd never met. Knowing what Moriarty expected because they were quite a lot alike, though really, anybody would try and escape their death, it's a biological imperative. The difference is that Sherlock, like Moriarty, is well capable of believably faking his. It had come down to a gambit: Moriarty would never allow himself to be at the mercy of another.

Sherlock had fumbled through trying to explain to the dry voice on the phone how important it was for the replacement cadaver to be convincing. "I don't know what kind of resources you have, but- my brother. He works for the government."

"Ah." Mr. Jones had said, in an understanding tone of voice. "Don't worry. My function is quite a bit outside the government. And beyond the police."

 

They end up having a great number of conversations, as there doesn't seem to be much else to do in the house. Later, Sherlock will realise that there may have been more words exchanged than the time he'd spent in the house can account for.

_the precise shade of John's eyes in the morning late afternoon at night by a fire Sherlock thinks he can tell the time by their color_

"Is it worth it?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Does it matter, now?"

Mr. Jones meets his eyes squarely, but there's a haunted edge to his expression. "What else can dead men care about?"

 

Sometimes it's Mr. Jones who asks the questions. "Your... John."

They're sitting in chairs in the kitchen, facing each other, and for some reason it makes Sherlock think of John's failed therapy sessions. He'll probably go back to them now. 

_every variant in the English language and yet it still sends a little thrill under Sherlock’s skin when John calls him amazing spectacular brilliant the guilty pleasure he hoarded without understanding what it was until he saw that John believes in him in ways that have nothing to do with logic and everything to do with whatever is left of Sherlock when one takes away the science_

"What about him?"

"Do you think of him as a doctor? Or a captain?"

Sherlock gives him a dry smile, and doesn't answer.

 

_gentle hands rough hands sometimes both at once and it surprises him how they look the same when cleaning a gun and when cleaning blood off Sherlock_

He hurts. He'd thought it was his head, at first, until he'd realised that it's all the rest of him that's hurting - his head seems like the only part that isn't. He moves around the house: he's lying in the bed and he's standing in the kitchen and he's looking at the mirror in the bathroom and he's back on the settee in the living room. Sometimes Mr. Jones is there, and other times he's not.

He falls asleep a few times, and he dreams he's in 221B. Except it’s empty, devoid of a John or a Mrs. Hudson, and so it's just another flat, silent and alien. It's so wrong wrong _wrong_ that he invariably wakes himself up.

Once, Mr. Jones is not wearing a suit when he brings Sherlock coffee. He's in jeans and a loose shirt, but he still moves like he's wearing a suit. Sherlock acts as if he doesn't notice. He wonders if this is what happens when a person stays too long in this kind of house.

A memory nudges for attention: Irene and her talk of disguises.

Thinking of _her_ doesn't do anything but remind him that he should probably get in touch. He wonders what that means. 

"You don't go by your first name anymore," Sherlock says, a few hours later when they encounter one another in the hallway and Mr. Jones is safely be-suited again.

"No." Mr. Jones follows him into the living room and settles into the armchair, leaving the settee for Sherlock. Sherlock's body creaks like an old oak lowering itself to rest. "It's not nearly as unique as yours, so no great loss there"

"I bet it's Welsh," says Sherlock.

Mr. Jones chuckles. "Why don't you just ask what it is?"

"Because you won't tell me."

The amusement fades from the other man’s face. "No, guess not." He goes to the bookcase on one wall and plucks out a book. The titles there might as well have been transplanted straight out of a chain bookstore's mainstream bestseller list. Sure enough, the book in Mr. Jones' hand, when he returns to the armchair, is _'The Spy Who Loved Me'_ by Ian Fleming.

_the flat is always half-buried by books when they have a case but sorting them after is easy because most of the fiction books belong to John and the reference texts belong to Sherlock and he knows to leave the medical journals next to John’s bed when the nightmares turn to insomnia and John lets him write all over his paperback thrillers when the criminal classes are being particularly unimaginative_

Sherlock stares blankly at the ceiling until the roaring in his ears has died down. He thinks he hears a faint _tap, tap, tap_ and it takes him far too long to track its source to Mr. Jones' index finger, absently flicking against the cover of his book as he reads. Sherlock watches as the tip of the finger pokes at the embossed letters:

_I – A – N – T – O_

 

He's starting to hate the taste of coffee. But he’s given cup after cup, the _exact_ same cup, and he knows better than to stop. He holds Mr. Jones' gaze while the bitterness soaks his mouth and slides down his throat.

"Maybe I'm ashamed," he says, to a question he won't remember later. "Haven't you heard? I'm a fraud."

Mr. Jones chuckles. "How long did you spend considering the other option? Full erasure - blink, and you've never existed."

Sherlock stares into his coffee mug. It's nearly empty, and he can smell a fresh one already on the way.

"You want to be remembered." Mr. Jones' voice is gentle. It feels, to Sherlock, all the more brutal for it. "Which means there's somebody you can't bear to be forgotten by. Somebody who you'd rather remember you _inaccurately_ than not at all."

"That's over now."

"I'm hate to tell you this, Mr. Holmes. But it's not. It never is."

"I can't go back to him."

"And yet, you will."

_toast and endless bloody cups of tea and someone to know when he composes a new song and a well of patience to drink up the storm that's always raging inside his head_

"I'm sorry," says Mr. Jones. He doesn't touch Sherlock, as if he knows that Sherlock won't be able to bear it. "I'm so, so sorry."

Sherlock screws his eyes shut. "What's happening to me? What have you done?" His brain is racing. Side-effects? Mr. Jones had refused payment for _manufacturing_ Sherlock's death, but Sherlock knows that nothing is without price.

"No," answers Mr. Jones. "Your life is, as always, your own; no payment can be made for what is already yours. This, Mr. Holmes, is the price of your death."

 

The hour of his departure sees clear skies and a warm afternoon. Sherlock pauses at the threshold of the door, frowning at the obnoxiously shining sun. He knows, somehow, that even though he can pinpoint precisely where he is now on a map, he won't be able to find this house again after he leaves. Not unless Mr. Jones wants him to.

"A bit of advice, from experience," says Mr. Jones, who manages to convey via body language that he's perfectly willing to wait however long it takes for Sherlock to get a move on, whilst simultaneously nudging him gently out the door. "Seeing a loved one die - people are not the same, afterwards. The first heartbreak is never completely forgotten. Even when the person miraculously comes back."

After a moment, Sherlock nods. He casts a meaningful look at Mr. Jones. "When the time comes, I believe your Captain will be happy to see you again."

The shock only lasts for a second on Mr. Jones' face, and then he's giving Sherlock a pointed look. "So will yours."

They nod to each other in perfect understanding.

"Thank you, Mr. Jones."

"Happy hunting, Mr. Holmes."

+++ end +++


End file.
